


Vigil

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Background Het, M/M, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: by Daisy ThistletopSam's thoughts while waiting for an injured Frodo to awaken in Rivendell.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Kudos: 2
Collections: Least Expected





	Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Feedback: This is my first fic, my first slash, my first post. First everything. So, I need encouragement/constructive crit. if I am to write more.  
> Story Notes: Special thanks to Jo and Jen my wonderful beta-lasses (And oh boy did I need you two!)

Sam couldn't rightly remember how many nights had gone by, here next to Frodo's sick bed. He was tired, not only from the skipped meals and the strange hours he was keeping - but from the emotional strain of waiting. Waiting.

Would his master ever wake up? He still wondered. Even though Elrond had reassured him earlier that evening that Frodo's life was no longer hanging by a thread, by this time Sam surely felt as if his own were.

By this time, too, he was used to the long, quiet hours of just sitting and looking at his master. Pippin and Merry had long since left the bedside. In their youthful optimism, the two seemed in awe of the elves' mysterious abilities, and were confident they would cure him soon enough. So, though they cared deeply for Frodo they were passing the tense days of waiting in the incredibly interesting company of Gandalf and the elves. Every so often, Merry would come striding in and demand to know why Sam was still sitting there, and attempt a joke or two, for which Sam never had any laughs or good excuses. Once in the late evening, Gandalf sat with him for awhile in silence, eventually to patiently explain that dinner and a soft bed had both been waiting for him, before giving up. The kindly wizard had left a tray of bread and cheese, and without saying another word, took himself off to his room. For some reason, even though Gandalf was obviously trying to get him to leave for his own good, Sam's feet and legs refused to budge and his eyes remained stubbornly open, just Frodo-gazing, his earth worn hands clenched in worry.

The long-familiar ivory skin of his face and hands, and dark untamed hair were all of Frodo that lay visible above the silken coverlet. Sam realized that they had changed ever so subtly from two nights ago - the circles under his eyes had lost some depth, and Frodo's curls were no longer resting limply on his sweat-sticky forehead. Tonight he was closer to the old Frodo Sam remembered from back in the Shire. Not quite the same - ever since he had been given the Ring and had it with him, his master had a haunted, somewhat distracted look - but tonight marked Sam's first night of real hope. *I think I'm beginning to believe Elrond,* Sam realized, and the realization surged in him, temporarily dislodging the lump in his throat and bringing fresh energy to his limbs.

_Perhaps tomorrow he will open his eyes..._

"Master," Sam whispered audibly, expectantly. Teeth gritted, he waited for some twitch of response, but the patient just lay still, as if dead. Sam was beginning to _really_ hate that. He had gotten into the rhythm of lightly placing his hand on Frodo's chest every so often, just to be sure there was still a heartbeat and breath. Sam closed his eyes and breathed with him, taking solace in the presence of his living friend. The echoes of the frightful events at Weathertop still hovered around his consciousness like hungry ghosts, waiting to haunt his mind with worry. But that heartbeat was strong, and the breath was deep, and the ghosts did not stir. Sam kept his hand on Frodo's chest, allowing his other hand to wander to his smooth forehead to rest. So comforting. His head hung forward until it was just touching Frodo's breastbone. With a jolt, he realized he had pressed a bit of the poultice that covered the severely injured shoulder, and held his breath, expecting his master to sit up and say "Ouch!"

Of course, Frodo did no such thing, wrapped in the deep elven healing spell. Silence hung in the air around the two hobbits like a warm fog. Sam could barely breathe as he found himself moving into the big, soft bed with his unconscious master. His hand wound itself around limp, soft fingers. *There's just no excusin' this,* he lectured to himself, but the warmth of his friend combined with fresh hopes was too much for Sam to bear. *Tomorrow he'll wake up.* His heart beat faster at the possibility. *And after then, what will you do Sam old boy? Follow him home,* he reassured himself. *And what else could I do but be with Frodo, and prepare his gardens for winter, and chop wood for him and make his tea.*

By this point almost every part of Sam's body touched Frodo's side. As the happy thoughts raced through his head he became gradually aware of his own arousal. Catching himself, he froze for a second and attempted to banish the inappropriate response, chalking it up to a combination of happiness and exhaustion. But the tension between his thighs was still there, and began to make him nervous, which just made the feeling worsen. Sam's brow was now damp with perspiration and his own eyes were hollowed. _What should I do now?_ He took a deep, slow breath. *What a foolish question, Sam Gamgee,* he chided. In a desperate feint, his brain decided that now would be a good time to focus on Rosie Cotton and her earthy charms. This definitely did not help...

*Well, this just won't do, layin' this way next to your master in this fine condition. Got to find some distraction. Maybe a walk - yep, a stroll 'll do you good. So the Gaffer always used to say. A few sniffs of the outdoors always did one good.*

Sam set his mouth in a firm line and set his furred feet on the waxed floor with a thump. Turning his back on his sleeping friend, he stepped determinedly out the door and into the night air, which was somehow always pleasant in Rivendell. He stopped, considering going back in to continue his vigil, but his complete lack of emotional control was still evident beneath his trousers, and something not unlike fear suddenly propelled him down the open corridor to his room.

Back in the guest room he had been given it was even cooler than the outside. The darkened fireplace gave no heat, and the bed remained neat, the covers untouched. A hobbit-sized nightshirt had been draped over the ornately carved headboard. Sam's heated desire seemed oddly misplaced. *Now what's the plan...* He almost laughed aloud at his pathetic state. Summoning Rosie's face to his mind, he crawled into the slightly overlarge bed, not even bothering to change.

He slid his hand down into his breeches and began stroking. Guilt pricked his mind, willing him to pause. Rosie disappeared, and an imagined Gandalf entered the room, looking startled. Usually thoughts like this would have put him in a calmer mood, but his nether region seemed to have a mind of its own tonight and refused to be left alone. _Well, guess I can only rest after the job gets done._ He continued the motion amidst the wonderfully soft covers and started to lose himself in pure distraction. He imagined her again, laughing and dancing, her cleavage swelling beneath a tight green bodice. Rosie waved a sun browned arm, beckoning her partner to join in the dance. It was Frodo who emerged from behind the hill, barely putting on the brakes in time before coming body to body with the pretty lass. The impact sent them both tumbling over in laughter. Now, surrounded by waving grasses, the couple kissed passionately. Sam imagined Rosie's gentle fingers caressing Frodo's thick, glossy hair, imagined his master silenced with a dark gaze, imagined his bright eyes and soft mouth being held captive by another kiss, this one slower, deeper. Frodo began moving against the young pretty hobbit with sudden urgency, and hitching up her skirt.

They began to move along a little faster now - a breath, a touch, a glimpse here and there of curly hair, a soft chest, a plump nipple being warmed by his master's breath. It was almost as if he could feel Frodo's light body above his, pressing down, his mouth open, his eyes closed in rapture. The rhythmic movement carried him completely away now, his white arms were wrapped around him, yes, and he opened his eyes to gaze into his, and as his hot urgency finally exploded around him like fireworks he thought he heard Frodo's breathy voice say "I love you" ....

Sam reclaimed his breath with a few gasps, and rested for a moment, enjoying the reverie. But as he rolled over to get more comfortable, something still tugged at his mind. He realized that at the final moment, Frodo had filled his imagination. Even worse, he distinctly remembered fantasizing that his master had told him he loved him. "Now what, lad?" he muttered aloud. "What's to be, fallin' for your Frodo like that, when you know very well what you want, what Rosie wants, what the Gaffer wants for you..." *Ridiculous. And to even think that Frodo would say somethin' like that to you, silly fat Sam! He's a precious thing, and special, and far beyond your reach...*

He fidgeted uncomfortably, his brow furrowed. Now, the raucous vision of Merry and Pippin disturbed him, they teased him mercilessly over sloshing pints of ale. "Poor old Sam," they hooted. "You really jump anything that moves, dontcha! Kissing Frodo, kissing Frodo, and now he's run away...." The imagined pair began a drunken version of a kiddie tune in his head. He sat up, put his hands firmly on either side of his curly head and shook, hoping to remove the offending thoughts. But worry remained. *What if I'm in love with him. What'll I do...*

Sam's legs hung limply over the bed and dangled, his head leaning low, arms stiffly at his sides. Growing up as he did, just working on a farm, he couldn't remember anything being so confusing. Now the Shire -- he couldn't wait to go back there and have his old familiar poppy garden, mustard fields, apple trees, firelight, smoked sausages. Things were right, plain, and easy there. He always knew what to expect from his gardens, the seasons, his master, himself.

Were things so different now? "No, it's same as always," he whispered, closing his eyes tightly. After all, they had been best friends for what seemed like forever. Reflexively, he felt a smile creep to his lips under all that embarrassment and self-reprimand. It seemed that happened whenever he considered Frodo. *Oh, blast it all! There I go thinkin' about him.....I wonder if he's still asleep. Well, it's worth another short walk. Can't sleep anyways.*

A bit dazed and rumpled, but definitely more relaxed, Sam arose from the slightly creaky bed and abstractedly took the fluffy robe that had been thoughtfully placed on a hook nearby. Tying it firmly around his waist, he padded back down the breezeway to the nice big carved room that held the small hobbit at its center like a glowing gem in an elaborate setting. Sam felt his eyes open wide and his hands tremble a little as he slowly walked back up to the high bedside, face lit up by the white reflections of the silken bedspread, gazing at that familiar soft face with unshakable hope. He climbed up the stool he had been sitting on and resumed his vigil with new resolve, without looking away for a moment. _Tomorrow you will wake up, I just know it._

* * *

Frodo drifted along in a timeless, comfortable sleep. He remembered darkness, and pain, but as if from a distance through a thick blanket of fog. Now he imagined he could see some kind of form, just over his shoulder, a faraway shoreline. And ever closer, the light poured in through his eyelids and he could see all around him, the white bed, the dark wood, and a tanned form on his left side. There were only these things, and a cool, light breeze carrying the scent of early morning, and the warmth of Sam's breath on his arm. But consciousness was withdrawn slightly, as if he could see forms through a hazy window, but not enter. No matter. Nothing mattered, just peace, and rest, and ......not feeling that intense pain in his shoulder...he became aware of it, still there burning him, but not unbearable. He tried to move his arm, but found he could not. Slight fear touched him, but he couldn't move his right arm either, nor his head or legs.  
_Mmmm. Wonder why. No matter._  
He concentrated instead on Sam now, obviously collapsed in sleep against him,as if he had passed out from too much drink. *My Sam,* he thought, *if I'm going to be here, wherever "here" is, it might as well be with you.* Sam was more than his best friend, he was sort of an obsession, really. If Frodo could chuckle to himself, he would have. *Poor Sam, if only he knew how many excuses I could come up with to get him to chop wood on a hot day. Ha. You must be waiting for me to wake up, Samwise. How devoted you are to me...maybe I will wake up now and tell you how much I love you.

Perhaps...tomorrow I will.*


End file.
